Something in Books, Something We Can't Imagine
by i-am-wholocked
Summary: After leaving the army, John Watson goes back to working in his family's bookstore. His life seems perpetually the same, until a regular costumer, the great detective Sherlock Holmes, changes his life for good. And everything comes together poetically when crime strikes in the Watson family, leaving John and his new companion to solve the crime or loose the beloved shop.
1. The Man Who Loved Jumpers, Books and Tea

**Author's Note: I'd like to point out that juliathehumanoid on tumblr came up with the idea for this fanfic. I just brought it to life. Enjoy!**

"There must be something in books,

something we can't imagine, to make a woman stay in a burning house;

there must be something there. You don't stay for nothing."  
― Ray Bradbury, _Fahrenheit 451_

In Westminster, London, on a road called Baker Street, set between a café and a pub, stood a local bookstore. No more than a little hole in the wall, the tiny, one-off establishment had stayed within the same family since 1887. Above the dirty glass of the window and the ratty wood of the door, an ancient sign painted with green letters read, "Watson Books". In the window, a handwritten poster-board made with black permanent marked was taped up. It displayed the details of trade, "Used & Rare, Hardbacks & Paperbacks for Trade and Sale. Prices always negotiable."

Each morning, except on Sundays, at precisely nine o'clock, a small man with an affinity for jumpers wobbled up to the shop with his cane, and he unlocked the heavy, tattered door to open the shop for business. He always sat behind the vintage register, which rested on a massive wooden desk just as ancient. Upon this throne, he sipped his cup of Earl Grey. If a customer appeared, which few ever did, he greeted the gent or lass with a smile and kind word. Most of the time though, he sat alone with his nose in a book and his thickly rimmed glasses near the pages, or he reorganized the towering stacks of volumes that surrounded him.

The front room overflowed with stories of all kinds, fairy tales, mysteries, and even romance. The man enjoyed reading very much, and to him the type of story did not matter, so being surrounded by these objects was incessantly entertaining. All the bookcases reached up to the ceiling, completely full, and even more books lined the floor in stacks. They were positioned just close enough together that a lean human could squeeze between them to browse the spines for a particular title. A fatter man would have surely struggled to fit in the small gapes.

In the back of the store, a thin staircase that led up to another room loomed beyond the register, and below it a brown door that contained a loo stood along the wall. The room above also carried an overcapacity of fictional tales and informational publications. The chamber that rested behind the other door was only a small space, with a toilet and a little sink. The pathetic place didn't even have a proper mirror.

Still, the man who loved jumpers and tea enjoyed the calming and familiar nature of his family's bookstore, after all he had been a doctor in the army, and seen quite enough excitement for this life. Calm was good for him. He couldn't even walk properly any more, he was shot and sent off on an honorable discharge. Much of anything besides his books, his tea and his jumpers would overwhelm him. Or at least, that was all he could handle according to his alcoholic, older sister, who had inherited the family bookstore, but didn't have any interest in it, and the woman who identified his problems, his loyal therapist. So the once promising young doctor served as a clerk at his sibling's misfit bookstore, and lived under firm orders from his shrink to stir clear of action.

Always at precisely noon, the worn man looked up from his books and left the shop for a few moments to grab a sandwich and two biscuits from the café next door. He always brought the small meal straight back to the store, and continued digesting words as he consumed his food.

Over the past few months, John had begun to notice a certain, new customer. Sometimes, in the late afternoon, a man with dark, unruly hair and a bright, blue scarf would stop by. He always burst through the door with an overdramatic flair and turned to face the man at the desk with his ever-changing eyes. Then, in a deep, romantic voice, much like one would imagine belonged to a knight of old, he would ask if any fresh scientific textbooks lined the shelves of the upper floor. If the ex-army doctor answered yes, the mysterious man would dart up the stairs like a cat and arrive back at the register in an instant to purchase his pick of the litter. If the clerk answered no, the lanky customer revolved around dramatically and exited the shop without saying a thing. This inexplicable stranger mesmerized the bored bookmen, and he often daydreamed of the adventures the odd bloke must enjoy.

Each evening at just half-past six, the bookstore clerk round up his things and locked up the shop. He walked to the tube station and took a train to his current place of residence, a rather pathetic place he could barely afford. The most expensive object in the room was the shotgun, which hid itself in the top, locked drawer of the cheaply assembled desk. It rested, waiting for the tired doctor to give up on life all together… or start over somewhere new.

One morning just a few moments after the man opened the shop for the day, an old friend appeared in the doorway. The man was a bit chubbier than the doctor remembered, but his aura brought a warm nostalgia to Watson. The surprised clerk questioned, "Mike, Mike Stamford? Is that really you?"

The gentleman exclaimed, "John Watson! I thought you were off somewhere getting shot at! What happened that brought you back to London?"

"I got shot," John starkly replied, lifting his cane onto the counter so Mike could see it.

The familiar face paused for a moment and asked, "So now you're working in your mum's store?"

The clerk corrected, "It's Harry's shop now… mum's been gone for six years now."

Mike hesitated again, "Oh, I'm sorry for your lose. I never heard from any of our old mates…"

The doctor explained, "No one really knew. I haven't talked to any of them in years."

Stamford sighed, "Oh, that's a shame. We were all such good pals back in school."

John tried to make Mike feel a bit better, "I'm not as fun as I used to be. I can barely get around, you know, with my damn useless leg and all." He stood and gestured to his lower body.

The other man made an effort to bring the conversation out of it's depressing depths, "So where've you been staying then?"

Well, at least he tried. John replied, "I've actually been looking for a flat share, but who'd ever want to be my flat mate?"

Stamford cooed, "That's funny… a man who recently moved in just down the street from this shop said the exact same thing to me earlier today."

John practically jumped with excitement, making a bit of a connection. Could it really be that strange man who'd starting coming into the shop regularly just a few months ago? The doctor bellowed to Mike, "Who is it?"

Stamford winked and said, "You'll see."


	2. The Man Who Loved Science and Murder

I'm sorry the wait was so long, but it took until now for me to realize where this story needs to go. Sorry about errors I no longer have a beta reader for this particular story, another set back that's been keeping it from publication.

Moments later, Watson was locking up the shop early and following Mike just a few addresses down the street, to a big, black door labeled "221B". He'd passed this door many times before, but never gave it a second thought. Stamford bolstered, "Wait until you meet Sherlock! He's fantastic!"

The door opened, and a comely, elderly woman in a flowered, purple dress appeared. "Ah, Dr. Stamford! Are you here to drop some of that science stuff off for Sherlock?"

"Ah no, I'm actually here to talk to him about something we were discussing this morning," Mike replied.

"Oh, well do come in! And bring your friend too!" The women led them up the stairwell with interesting wallpaper lining its sides.

When they emerged at the top, they entered a flat's little living room, with several miss-match armchairs and an odd-looking, green couch. The walls were covered in a strange paper, different from the one in the hall outside, yet equally abnormal. The same mysterious man who frequented John's shop was standing over the table in the center of the room, fussing with a cow's skull that was mounted on the wall. "Afternoon, Sherlock," Mike interjected.

"Oh Mike! Good evening, how may I help you?" The curly-haired bloke spun around and motioned for Mike and John to have a seat. They both continued standing. Sherlock put his hands back at his side awkwardly. Why did he even bother attempting social normalcy?

"Are you still searching for a flatmate? Because my old mate John here is looking for a flat share, and I thought you two would get on smashingly," Mike explained.

Sherlock look John up and down, "You're the man from the bookstore aren't you? I've never really had the chance to ask, but this has been bugging me for a while… was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"What?" John blinked his eyes.

"You were clearly in the military based on your posture, that haircut and your tan-line. Clearly you weren't on a vacation, everything about it says abroad with the military. You were wearing a uniform! And your limp, another dead give away… You were wounded in battle and sent home with an honorable discharge," Sherlock explained.

John was stunned. How could this man know so much about him? "Afghanistan," he quietly replied. He turned to look at Stamford, who smiled like a mother fixing her son up on a date and said, "Sherlock here is a detective. He works with the police but isn't one of them."

"So when can you be ready to move in then? That is… if you find the place suitable," Sherlock forwardly suggested as his eyes darted around his messy living room. John, too, looked all over the space. Books and papers were spread across the table and floor. A skull rested casually on the mantel place, along with more messy files and letters.

John beamed, "Oh, no it's quite suitable. It will be lovely actually. I can move in tomorrow if that's okay?"

The next day, instead of opening up his shop, John took the day off to move in at 221B Baker Street. With a single cardboard box, one suitcase, and a worn duffel bag, John had everything packed into a cab and set to move. Sherlock, who must have watched for the bookstore clerk's arrival through the window, ran down the stairs to meet him. He grabbed the duffel bag and suitcase, insisting that he would take them up the stairs. John limped behind him, holding the cardboard box in front of his chest.

Mrs. Hudson, the woman who had opened the door the day before, was standing in the living room. She motioned toward the second set of stairs and said, "There's another room upstairs. If you'll be needing two. . ."

Sherlock gave her an awkward glance, like a man whose mother just showed off pictures of him as a lad, naked with his pants on his head. John mumbled, "Why wouldn't we need two?"

"Nothing dear, let me take that box up for you," the kind elder took the box from the confused bloke and carried it up the stairs. Sherlock followed with the rest of John's things. The ex-army doctor limped up behind them.

After unpacking all of his things John walked back downstairs to get comfortable in the living room, adjusting the British flag pillow, taking his seat and flipping through a week old newspaper. A mobile resting on the table began to ring. He looked over at it awkwardly, debating whether to pick it up for his flatmate or not. Just in time, Sherlock came out of the kitchen and grabbed it up. He murmured, "Hello? Yes, I'm available. Did you say burned her in a room of books? What books? Fine, fine. I'll be right over. No, don't send a damn car, Lestrade! I'll take a cab. Be there soon."

The detective grabbed his coat off of the table, put it on, and placed his phone in his pocket. He looked to John and apologized, "Sorry to dash off right as you're settling in, but I've got a case I really need to get to!"

The quirky man darted down the stairs, but before he reached the front door he turned around and ran back up. Standing in the doorway to the flat he glanced over at John. The soldier turned to look at the detective. Then, in that romantic, knightly voice that reminded Dr. Watson of his books, Sherlock claimed, "You know, I might actually really need help from someone who has extensive knowledge on books in this case. Are you up for an adventure?"

John hopped out of his chair and shouted, "Oh god yes!"


	3. The Woman Who Loved Pens and Paper

Shortly after John and Sherlock's black cab arrived at the crime scene, a grey-haired cop walked down from the townhouse and greeted them. The consulting detective introduced the two men, "John this is Detective Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, this is my new flatmate John."

The D.I. scolded Sherlock; "You really shouldn't be bringing anybody with you, Sherlock. This is a crime scene and I break enough rules to get you in here . . ."

Mr. Holmes retaliated, "He's a doctor and an expert on books. While you're consulting me, I'll be consulting him."

"Fine," mumbled Lestrade, who led them through to the door and in to the living room of the small house. The entire place was scorched, but luckily the fire had been put out soon enough to preserve most of the evidence. The forensics team working to discover the origin of the blaze had carefully removed the body already. The cop explained, "There wasn't much evidence on the victim anyway, she was completely burned . . . If it helps you at all, I can tell you she was a forty-two year old writer and the resident of this home. Her name was Clara Scott." His forced trailed off as he pictured the sickening image of the charred corpse that had been lying on the floor just moments earlier. He continued, "We need you to look around the room and piece together what these books mean . . ."

John interrupted, "Clara Scott, did you say Clara Scott was her name?"

Lestrade replied, "Yes, I did. Does that name mean something to you?"

The ex-army doctor, after verifying the identity of the victim, decided he must share what he knew; "Clara Scott was a budding author about fifteen years ago. She was doing short stories for a paper but wanted to work on novels. My older sister, Harry, took the writer up under her wing, and funded her fulltime. However, my sister's intentions for her weren't exactly just to support her as an artist. No one really knows except me, but Harry forced Clara into marrying her by threatening to cut off her funds. Years later, Ms. Scott escaped my crazed, alcoholic sister but had no way to continue her writing. She never finished her third novel." He gulped and internally asked himself if his sister was capable of murder. He quickly pushed the idea out of his mind. After all, Clara may have made other enemies in her life.

The D.I. was a bit shocked by this information and told the soldier and the genius, "Well if that means you two don't feel comfortable working on this case I understand."

Sherlock snapped, "Of course we're comfortable working on this case. I, for one, have no emotional attachment to this woman. And since John is estranged from his sister he should be fine as well."

Dr. Watson shyly glanced up at Sherlock and stuttered, "H-how did you know about Harry?"

"Oh come on, her name is under the ownership for the book shop, but I have not once seen her inside it. Clearly she doesn't speak to you," the lanky, consulting detective explained.

"Wow," John whispered.

Sherlock laughed and rebuked the doctor, "While I'm flattered by your little expressions of astonishment, this is a crime scene and I would like to get to work."

"Right, right;" John stepped out of Sherlock's way and let him examine the scene as he pleased. However, when the bookstore clerk noticed a familiar cover on the floor, he leaned down and picked the novel up. The book had one charred corner, but most of it was intact. He flipped through some of the pages, knowing he had previously seen a similar copy of this rather rare hardback. In fact, he remembered exactly whom he had recently sold a book like this to. On the last page of the volume John found a familiar symbol. Embossed in page shown the logo of his family's bookshop, the Watson crest. Every time a new book came into the shop, the soldier stamped one of the back pages with this marking. He looked over at Sherlock, who was running his finger through some of the ash on the floor. Catching the consulting detective's attention John shouted, "Sherlock, we need to check the last pages of all these books."

The curly-haired man looked up and blurted, "Why?"

"Because every single one of these books is from my shop, and I think I know who bought all of them."


	4. The Girl Who Loved Brawls and Metal

John peered up from the novel in his hand and scanned across the rest scattered throughout the room. He turned to his flatmate and commanded, "Sherlock, we need to check the last pages of all these books."

The lanky detective begged, "Why?"

The soldier replied, "Because every single one of these books is from my shop, and I think I know who bought all of them. Her name is Sally Donovan. She comes into my shop every Thursday afternoon with one of those preppy blokes from the boy's school down near Regent's Park."

Sherlock smirked and confirmed, "Today is Thursday is it not?"

"Oh, yes it is! But I'm not at the shop;" John applied a sense of disappointment to his words.

"Don't just stand there! We have to get back to your shop before they arrive. How much time do you think we have?"

"Maybe an hour or forty five minutes?"

"Well then Dr. Watson, the game is afoot!"

The pair fought off Lestrade's offer of a cop to watch the "stake-out" at the bookstore and kindly said their farewells to the Detective Inspector. Sherlock promised to call him as soon as he knew more about the case. Similarly, Lestrade claimed he would let the genius know of any developments.

Back on Baker Street John rustled through his pocket to find the key. Then, he unlocked the shop and flipped the sign on the door to say "Open" instead of "Closed". He flicked the lights on and rested his cane against the register. He used the counter to support his limp as he walked to his familiar, daily post. Sherlock followed close behind him and spun around, giving the room a full looking over from John's vantage point.

The consulting detective faced the doctor and declared, "Not really anywhere for me to hide here. Any suggestions?"

John stretched his head over the table and peered out the storefront window. He noticed the outdoor table at the café across the street and a brilliant idea came to him. Facing the detective he suggested, "Why don't you go sit over there? I'll keep my mobile under the table and you can listen to our conversation that way. I can turn it silent as well. That way, they won't be able to hear you."

"Better yet, take this Bluetooth headpiece;" Sherlock whipped a miniature electronic out of his pocket. Unlike a businessman's communication device, this headset was small enough to suit a spy.

John grabbed the tiny contraption and began pressing buttons on his phone; "Alright, I'll pair this to my mobile. You can give me suggests through this if you need to! Here they come. Quickly, go!" Without saying another word, Mr. Holmes darted out the door, his coattail floating behind him.

Shortly after Sherlock exited the shop, Sally appeared. The rebellious, gothic, young teen wore a leather jacket, beaten jeans, and a plethora of distinctive earrings. A choker of spikes striped across her neck, while a similar belt trimmed her waist. Her hair was a dark mess of little curls. As usual, her small-minded, dependent, snob-of-a-boyfriend emerged through the door behind her. He adjusted his glasses and straightened his navy blue school blazer. Turning to the girl he asked, "What do you want today, love? Should we see if they've got anything you haven't read by Poe perhaps?"

She lifted her hand in his face and snapped, "Shut up, Anderson. You're an idiot and I can't stand to hear you speak. "

Sally's attentions quickly diverged to John, who was looking on from behind the lofty counter. She directed, "I saw you in the window just a minute ago with that detective bloke. Stay away from that guy if you value your life. He dances with death, practically makes love to it. He's addicted to crime, and some day admiring other people's murders won't fulfill his desires. The man's bound to fall from his over-done state of greatness."

Sherlock chuckled into John's ear.

"Right," the clerk bellowed sarcastically, then continued, "Is there anything I can help you with today?"

The girl would not give up, "I am serious. Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath. My dad works in the Scotland Yard Drug Abuse Prevention Unit. He says the bloke's been on some really crazy shit. He gets bored easy when there are no murders going on and turns to illegal stuff. His brother helps him get away with it. What happens when he runs out of suppliers? BAM! He is going to commit murder himself. Hell, it won't be just murder. It will be a bloody serial killing."

The detective was coldly silent.

Dr. Watson could not help but defend his new flatmate. Outraged, he yelled, "Sherlock Holmes could never be a killer! If you're going to talk about a friend of mine like that, you and your stupid-arse boyfriend need to exit the shop immediately."

The girl was stunned. Her boyfriend made a move forward, as if he was going to retaliate, but he cowered back with fear at the sight of the shopkeeper's angry face. There was a brief moment of silence.

On the phone Sherlock mumbled, "I'm not a psychopath. I'm a sociopath. Tell her that. Tell her to do her research. She's in a bloody bookstore."

Upon hearing this John relayed, "Oh, and he's not a psychopath. He's a sociopath. Do some fucking research!"

"Well you just lost our business for the rest of forever. Come on love;" Anderson grabbed his girlfriend's arm as he spoke.

Sally ripped away from his grasp and replied; "Don't touch me when I haven't asked to be touched! How many times do I have to explain that?" Then, she turned to John and said, "When you're killed in a serial killing, it will be your own bloody fault. I will be laughing. I warned you."

With that, the couple exited the shop. Sherlock hung up the mobile on his end and rapidly sprinted back across the street without even looking for cars. A bit out of breath, he said, "What you did back there . . . uh, thanks. And I think I have a pretty good profile on Sally and I might know how her and Anderson fit into this case."


End file.
